


30 Days of Skyrim Drabbles

by SoftlyTea



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Angst, Brandy - Freeform, Character Death, Death, Grief, Home, Homesickness, Letters from Home, Mild torture, More angst, Multi, Phobias, Pining, Sadness, Sexual Tension, Talos the unwanted houseguest, Thalmor, a gentle prod to write more backstory, allusions to political strife in Alinor, arch-mages get writer's block too, blanket theft, breton-sized furniture, dovahkiining is hard, drugged-up dovahkiin, fear and loathing in Markarth, hallucinogenic properties of giant mushroom spores, hand-knitted socks, it's unseasonably warm at the Embassy, original character death, questioning one's life path, saying goodbye, sword fighting lessons, territory expansion, terror on eight legs, therapy for the author
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-12-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 8,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6821440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SoftlyTea/pseuds/SoftlyTea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>30 days of 500+ word minifics. Various characters, various themes, minimally tagged for now.</p><p>Some are... rather ridiculous. xD</p><p>Summaries in Chapter 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Waiting

**Author's Note:**

> A self-imposed challenge and experiment to see what happens when I force myself to bash out short ficlets with very little editing.
> 
> Enjoy! Comments welcome. 
> 
> These tend to be added to AO3 in batches, but if you want to follow along (and/or take delight in my pain), they appear on my [Tumblr](http://softlytea.tumblr.com) first. 
> 
> Feel free to prompt, too! I like prompts! In the comments, on Tumblr, wherever. 
> 
> Bethesda owns Skyrim. I own my two dragonborns:
> 
> \- Larysa, my Altmer mage who I ship with Erandur and, if these drabbles are anything to go by, alternates between doing ill-advised things with mushrooms and being my therapist  
> \- Liya, who informed me recently that she is probably a Breton, stars in her own little series with Ondolemar, and makes appearances involving spiders and brandy in these little drabbles
> 
> \--
> 
> 11th May 2016
> 
> 1\. 'Waiting' - Teldryn grieves for an unknown patron lost in Skyrim  
> 2\. 'Socks' - A Thalmor Justiciar receives a parcel  
> 3\. 'Mushrooms' - The Dragonborn makes an important alchemical discovery  
> 4\. 'If You Can Still Walk, Then We Aren't Finished' - Rulindil teaches swordfighting  
> 5\. 'Writer's Block' - The Arch-Mage tries to write a research paper
> 
> 22nd May 2016
> 
> 6\. 'Terror' - The Thalmor are not immune to phobias
> 
> 31st July 2016
> 
> 7\. 'Lost' - Not even Dovahkiins can hold it together all the time  
> 8\. 'Home' - The Dragonborn is a long way from home. Maybe.  
> 9\. 'Promises' - Tensions run deliciously high for Ondolemar and a certain new friend of his. At least it livens up the party.
> 
> 27th August 2016
> 
> 10\. 'The End' - For all his Altmeri superiority, there is one enemy Ondolemar cannot defeat
> 
> 29th December 2016
> 
> 11\. 'Cosy' - Ondolemar seeks to expand his territory
> 
>  
> 
> Let's start off with some nice cliched angst to get it out of the way.

He waits. He has been waiting for weeks, but he waits for her still.

His gaze cuts through the crackling fire and the haze of fragrant woodsmoke to the empty space opposite him, where he swears that the outline of her form will appear to him if he sits still enough. The wind that whistles through the bare trees almost sound like the songs she used to sing, if he closes his eyes and wills it to be so.

The weather is mocking him. Everything is cold, bleak, everywhere he looks is a fresh reminder of death, and the snow has rendered the landscape a featureless expanse of nothing.

 _Like me,_ he thinks bitterly.

Perhaps he is right. He certainly sees himself that way, numb, buried under the weight of so much - what? Not feeling, that’s for sure. He has ceased feeling long ago, but how can emptiness weigh so heavily and be so godsdamned _cold_?

No, certainly not feeling.

At first, when the grief and the rage had swept through him, merciless, unrelenting, he would have given anything to stop them. He was always screaming, then, he remembers. Even when his mouth was clamped shut against the nausea of words left unsaid, words he should have surrendered to her, words that now fester toxic in a heart unused to having such a burden to bear, he was screaming. Mostly _why, why her and not me, I was sworn to protect her, why couldn’t it have been me_ -

Perhaps he should have known, then. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised when he turned his gaze down the path of destruction pain had wrought in his soul, and found there was nothing left to salvage.

_You took the best of me._

Was it mere fantasy that they had complemented each other in a way he had experienced with no other patron? That his flames and her strikes together made the bloody violence of killing an artful dance of power and grace? Almost certainly, a mere artifact of a heart battered by futile desire, but he will indulge it for now.

Of course, there has been bloodshed since, but it will not entice her back, so it doesn’t matter.

It doesn’t matter. Yes, that’s right. Nothing matters really, not now, because it was her, she made everything matter, with every remark and passing glance and, divines, every breath she drew. Before her, he would laugh at every bardic cliche, scorn the verses that drip pining platitudes into receptive ears that seek naively to understand that which they have never felt in the hopes that it will give them substance. They had no idea that it would leave them as empty as he now finds himself.

How could they have known any of that, when they didn’t have her, didn’t lose her? But oh, there he goes again, and perhaps he laughs at himself now, for becoming one of the stupid cliches he so detested.

_You took all of me._

She has, it seems. He is a shadow sitting here by the fire, no more real now than the one he waits for.

He still waits. He knows she will not come, but that is just fine. He has nothing else to do.


	2. Socks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Thalmor Justiciar receives a parcel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was inspired by a [really interesting discussion](http://softlytea.tumblr.com/post/143975239518/bluraaven-chamerionwrites-bluraaven) on Tumblr between Bluraaven and Chamerionwrites about morality, in which Bluraaven illustrated their point with a lot of (frankly beautiful) examples of Thalmor doing normal, ‘human’, everyday things.
> 
> This became the prompt for today’s drabble.
> 
> TW: Mild torture and violence in the beginning.

The charge crackled lazily in his hand, the familiar tingle of magicka coursing hotly through him. The desperate whimpering of the chained heretic before him was equally familiar. They all sounded the same, all bled the same, all broke the same. And for what? All they needed to do was renounce their ridiculous man-god, turn over any heretical paraphernalia in their possession, and co-operate with the routine compliance checks every few weeks, and they would be free. Why would anyone choose this over freedom? What false god could ever be worth this? Didn’t they know that most of them renounced in the end, anyway? If only they could just do so sooner rather than later, and save all this - unpleasantness.

The Nord’s shriek as the shock ripped through him jolted the Justiciar out of his musings, and he shook his head. _Focus,_ he told himself. _This one’s the last._

Oh, but it had been a long and irritating day. His shoulder ached from the lashing he had been forced to give a particularly recalcitrant prisoner (defiant til the end, all wild eyes and spitting and threats, scarcely human), and he was sure he hadn’t quite managed to scrub all the spattered blood from his face. 

The smell of singed hair and flesh would cling to his robes, he knew. He would have to air them, but there was snow on the way, so that wouldn’t do. How tiresome.

He noticed then, with no small measure of relief, that his hapless victim had lost consciousness. With no more he could do here, he was finally off duty, and could finally relax.

Back in his quarters, he barely had time to ease off his boots (gods, but his feet ached, he hadn’t had a minute to rest all day) when a sharp knock sounded at the door.

‘Yes, enter,’ he barked, making no effort to disguise the irritation in his voice.

'Evening, sir.’ It was one of the guards, young, eager to please, and really quite friendly, who had stepped smartly into the room and saluted. Well, as best he could, with the box he clutched to his chest and the steaming cup precariously balanced on top of it. 'You have a delivery from Alinor.’

The Justiciar raised a curious eyebrow. 'And the cup?’

'Well, sir, it so happens that it’s Ceridwen’s birthday today, sir, and her mother sent her some rosehip tea, and she’s been sharing it out in the barracks, and she thought you might like some, sir.’

'How thoughtful of her. Convey her my gratitude. Put it on the table, and return to your tea party.’ A hint of a smile.

'Sir.’ The soldier left with a considerably more effective salute, shutting the door behind him.

_A delivery, hm?_

He shed his heavy robes and scrubbed his face until he was sure it was free of heretic blood, before taking a sip of the tea. It was delicious, evocative, and suddenly he was a child again, sitting crosslegged on the floor playing with his wooden soldiers as his mother knitted and sang and drank, yes, rosehip tea, the scent wafting through the air and mingling with the honeysuckle’s sweetness outside the open window.

The box was heavy, and thoroughly tied with seemingly endless twine that required the use of his dagger to dispatch. (Only his mother would do this, and yes, that was certainly her writing. Her careful worry made him smile).

He drew out the parchment first, before even looking at the objects inside the box.

 _My dear son,_ he read,

 _I trust all is well and that you are managing to stay warm and dry in those frozen climes in which you find yourself stationed_ (his smile grew wider; his mother was nigh-obsessive about cold). _Your father and I miss you very much and pray for your safety and success every day._

 _We had an excellent harvest this year…_ (he lapped up every detail, every little mention of the fruit trees’ yield and how big the tomatoes were and how jealous his aunt had been, for these things were sacred, these things were Home). Then, further down,

 _Your sister and her husband send their regards, and she promises she will write to you soon because she has 'something important to tell you.’ I know what it is, of course, but she has sworn me to secrecy. They are both well, but she didn’t touch a drop of the brandy we’ve been distilling all year. She had been so looking forward to it, too…_ (He laughed aloud at this, both at his mother’s utter inability to keep secrets, and the fact that he was clearly soon to be an uncle).

And on and on the letter rambled, gossip and news and comments from the woman who sang the nightmares away and healed his skinned knees and cried when he graduated from the Academy. He savoured every word, heard every sentence in her voice, and when he had finished, he laid the letter lovingly aside to turn his attention to the contents of the box.

There, meticulously labelled, was the fruit jam he had come to expect ( _'a little tart for my tastes this year, but your father rather prefers it like this, do tell me what you think’_ ), two bottles of the apple brandy his sister hadn’t touched ( _'these will keep the chill away’_ ), a copy of his favourite author’s latest work ( _'do you have time to read much these days? Your father said you’d appreciate the ending, I don’t know what he means by that’_ ) and - something else. A soft little packet, wrapped in thin paper.

He prodded it gently, an almost boyish curiosity rising as he unwrapped it.

Inside lay a pair of soft woollen socks. They were green, which happened to be his favourite colour, and they glowed with the gentle warmth of enchantment.

He fingered the luxurious wool as he read the note:

_'I hope you like these. I put a warming enchantment on them. Your father said he was sure your robes would be enchanted already, but cold feet are most unpleasant, I told him, and perhaps the Dominion doesn’t think about feet as much as it should.’_

No, perhaps it didn’t, but as he slipped the socks onto his tired feet and wriggled his toes in their snug warmth, he was exceptionally grateful that his mother did.


	3. Mushrooms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragonborn makes an important alchemical discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by phoenixquest and a conversation about Blackreach. If you haven't read her work, go forth and do so. 
> 
> Introducing Larysa, my Dragonborn mage I named before I had a clue about Altmeri naming conventions and who now won’t let me change it because she’s grown too attached to it.
> 
> (I ship her and Erandur. I'm not sure how much of that will end up in these drabbles, but just in case.)

‘Mara preserve us,’ Erandur breathed as he surveyed the cavernous expanse before them.

Beside him, Larysa took a gulp of water and offered him the bottle, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a highly un-Altmeri fashion.

'Well, it’s certainly - big,’ she remarked cautiously. Something about the place didn’t sit well with her. Perhaps it was the creeping smell of fungal damp, or the familiar scufflings of Falmer below in the gloom, or the eerie glowing of mushrooms which were far too large to be normal, but whatever it was, she didn’t like it.

Erandur noted her demeanour with some concern. Larysa had never been one to hesitate in the face of peril, be that peril in the form of daedric princes, dragons, or drunk racist idiots in the Grey Quarter. (The usually mild-mannered Dunmer had gained no small pleasure in watching his companion break Rolff’s nose as effortlessly as if it had been an egg. Priest he may be, but he was only mortal, after all.)

'Are you alright?’, he asked.

'Hm. There’s just something not quite - right about this place, do you not think?’

Erandur was going to point out that there hadn’t been very much right about Dragon Priest tombs, cannibal cults or the erstwhile Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary either, but he refrained.

'It isn’t quite like anything we’ve seen before, it’s true,’ he conceded. Larysa shrugged, hefted her pack, and they pressed on.

The hours that followed were uneventful; they had dealt with enough Falmer and chaurus during their travels together that they posed little threat now. Larysa’s mood had evidently lifted, and she was being decidedly cheerful. _Merry,_ even.

Erandur, however, had begun to feel - strange. Clearly the low light was affecting him more than usual, because a mild throbbing had started to pulse in his temples and whenever he turned his head, it felt like his vision lagged half a second behind and the scenery lurched to keep up.

He squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed them.

'Larysa,’ he began, turning to face her - but she was nowhere to be seen. _What in Oblivion-?_ Panic bubbled in his stomach as he turned on the spot, frantically seeking her in the gloom, fingers clenched around the hilt of his mace, _where could she possibly have gone, she was right here…_

And then he saw her.

So Larysa was perhaps not the most typical example of her race. Dragonblood aside, the fact that she had buried Altmeri arrogance and superiority beneath a layer of wry humour and curiosity and desire to be useful was one thing. Her propensity for beating racist Nords bloody and then buying them mead was another. But… this was another level.

The Dragonborn had thrown her arms around a pillar, buried her face in one of the glowing mushrooms, and was _licking_ it.

Erandur had seen and done much in his life, but for all his intimate experience with the compounds in The Dreamstride, and a certain disastrous evening involving five bottles of Balmora Blue and a netch, this still managed to shock him.

'Larysa!’ he shouted as he raced towards her, 'No! What are you doing?’

She turned a joyful face towards him, cheeks a soft green in the fungus’ glow, a smile of utter bliss on her lips, and proudly proclaimed:

'I’m licking a mushroom!’

Erandur’s cult days had shown him enough to know what hallucinogenic effects looked like. If her frankly unhinged behaviour didn’t persuade him, the pinprick pupils in her amber eyes certainly did.

_Oh, Divines, the Dragonborn’s high on mushroom spores._

And then, suddenly and painfully aware of his throbbing head and blurred vision,

_So am I._

It was fortunate that Erandur’s past unsavoury experiences had lent him a certain tolerance, he thought, as he guided a giggling, stumbling Dovahkiin towards the exit (’and then it was _speaking_ to me, Erandur, and it sounded like _you_!’). It was even more fortunate that they had cleared out the Falmer so swiftly.

Some weeks later, the Arch-Mage of the College of Winterhold published a rather interesting paper on the effects of giant mushroom spore inhalation. It was very well-received by the academic community, and many students were quite eager to continue her research.

Surprisingly, an expedition was never mounted. The Arch-Mage cited funding constraints, but no-one really believed her. Her embarrassment was too obvious.


	4. If You Can Still Walk, Then We Aren't Finished

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rulindil teaches swordfighting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by the lovely Imdex; hugely inspired by her sweet little Breton's adventures with Rulindil. 
> 
> (Possible TW for mild violence and power play)

Boots.

That’s pretty much all you can see from your current vantage point. His last blow caught you in the legs, landing you face-first in the mud. Your sword (wooden, for now, you’re not trying to kill each other - or at least, that’s what you had assumed) lies hopelessly trapped beneath one of the aforementioned boots, and right now the temptation to offer full unconditional surrender is very strong.

‘Up.’

It’s not a suggestion. Surrender does not appear to be an option.

You spit mud and struggle to your feet, wincing. Somehow, you manage to catch the sword that has just been lobbed in your general direction.

'Again.’ He sounds almost bored.

You suppress an urge to whine. You asked for this, after all. Your small stature has always put you at a disadvantage against the taller races, and who taller than an Altmer? How fortunate, that you have one who is willing to help you practise overcoming a height difference.

'Listen, Breton,’ - you’re circling each other now, 'You are more stable. You are a smaller target. You wrongly think you are at a disadvantage, but that’s because,’ - _thrust, parry, dodge,_ 'You have no idea what you’re doing.’

He hasn’t even broken a sweat, the bastard, and Mara’s mercy your legs hurt.

'Look,’ you plead, 'Can’t we just finish with this for today? We’ve been going for _hours_ …’ (You haven’t. It’s been thirty minutes at best, but gods, you’ve felt every one of them.)

'If you can still walk, then we aren’t finished. Stop talking. Concentrate.’

_Urgh._

This time, you manage to get a glancing hit in. He barely even flinches.

'Congratulations,’ he sneers, 'I’ve sustained worse injuries doing paperwork.’

'Oh, come ON! That was totally a hit!’

'No,’ and the sudden blow to your wrist forces you to drop your weapon, ‘that was a hit,’ and before you have time to react he has run at you, his momentum bowling you to the ground and he has you pinned, bruising fingers round your wrists and his full weight on your legs, 'and what exactly do you propose to do now?’

_Knee you in the nuts and run,_ you think, but you are completely immobilised and powerless and – interestingly, he doesn’t look bored anymore.

_Counterattack._

You make a play at struggling. He holds you tighter. Your mind is not on practice anymore; height differences scarcely matter when one is horizontal, after all.

‘I propose offering you my full surrender? After all, I can’t walk anymore, so we must be finished.’ You smile sweetly up at him.

Black eyes flash amusement. ‘Is that so?’ His face is hovering closer to yours now, you can feel hot breath on your cheeks and his lips have curled into a snide little smile, ‘And what might the terms of this surrender be?’

_Not all battles are won with blows._

‘Well, I concede your superiority, of course. Once again, you have proven your mastery, ably demonstrating that my place is well and truly beneath you in all ways, and perhaps we could work out the minutiae in a slightly more comfortable location?’

Loosely speaking, a battle is won when you are still alive, and when you have got what you want. You are still alive, and by the look he gives you as he hauls you to your feet, you are very much about to get what you want.


	5. Writer's Block

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Arch-Mage tries to write a research paper. Follows on from 'Mushrooms'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had writer's block.
> 
> Here, I'm writing about my character writing about something I wrote about her doing two days previously, and writing about her not being able to write about it, just like I wasn't being able to write about her not being able to write about it.

The rain lashed against the windows of the Arcanaeum, rivulets of water streaking down the panes as gusts of wind shrieked around the College towers. Larysa stared moodily at her distorted reflection in the blackened glass. Divines, why was this so _difficult_? She was the Arch-Mage! This should not be happening!

She forced her gaze back to the pile of books she had collected what felt like several centuries ago, back when the sun was just setting and her sense of purpose hadn’t yet curled up in a corner and died a miserable death. And what, pray, had she accomplished since then? Well, there was the title, a good start indeed. And her name, always useful. And - no. No ‘and’. That was it.

She couldn’t even say what she had been doing for all that time. She did suspect, however, that the little sketch of a suspiciously familiar Altmer mage flying a friendly-looking dragon up the margin of her scrap paper might have used up rather more time than it should. It was quite good.

Dissatisfaction and something like guilt needled at her. She fought the urge to smack her forehead against the table, as the last time she had done that, Urag had giving her a pointed glare and jabbed a calloused, ink-stained finger at the 'SILENCE’ sign above the desk. Being Arch-Mage may have had its benefits, but here the Orc ruled supreme.

_Focus!_

Take quill. Yes, that one, the one that you’ve been twiddling around your fingers for the past goodness knows how long. Dip in ink. Place on paper. Deep breath. Write.

_Little is known about the alchemical properties of the giant mushrooms of Blackreach,_ she wrote (thirteen words! She can do this, she is a goddess of alchemy, a legendary scholar, patron saint of writers everywhere, she will have statues erected of her and epic poetry written in her honour!), _but_ -

But?

But _what_? How could three letters mock one so much?

She scribbled out the offending word and replaced it with a full stop, wishing she could end this torturous evening as easily as she had her sentence. It so happened, however, that the divines chose that moment to smile on her, as it was then that the heavy door creaked open to admit a rather damp Erandur.

Urag gave him a warning glare (easily translated: if you drip on any of my books, you’re writing them out again by hand) before returning grumpily to his tomes. Larysa, meanwhile, furtively slid her pitiful attempts at writing under a pile of papers and smiled as the very welcome distraction made his way over to her table.

'Hello,’ she mouthed as he sat down.

He smiled gently in response. 'How’s the report?’

'Non-existent. I’m just about ready to give up. This is ridiculous. I’m ridiculous. What am I even doing here?’

The Dunmer glanced over his shoulder to confirm that Urag was indeed immersed in his latest translation project, before rummaging in his bag and sliding a bottle across the table to her - NO EATING, DRINKING OR SUMMONING be damned.

'Take a break. Dagur has this new brew down at the Frozen Hearth. The others are all there now, giving it an admirably thorough testing. See what you think.’

Larysa slouched listlessly in her chair, turning beseeching amber eyes to meet his crimson ones.

'You know, Larysa,’ he murmured, one slender finger pushing the mead bottle encouragingly in her direction, 'Maybe you should come and join us. You look worn out.’

'But the report-’

’- can wait until you’re rested and no longer feeling like every word is a losing battle. Come on.’

Some things in life were important, a mildly hungover Larysa mused as she dragged herself out of bed the next morning. Good friends and good alcohol, for sure - and a priestly Dunmer who knew that sometimes the best way to show his goddess’ love was by hauling you off to the inn and helping your companions get you drunk enough to forget what you were worrying about in the first place.

Mara be praised, indeed.


	6. Terror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Thalmor are not immune to phobias.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. This was originally going to be an emotionally-charged, angst-ridden piece… but then I talked to Imdex and it became quite a bit more sadistic XD 
> 
> Sorry, Ondolemar, but you got to show off just how superior you are in [I Will Always Be Here,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6544477/chapters/14972227) so consider this my way of restoring balance to the world.

It had been an excellent day.

It wasn’t often that Ondolemar was able to take time away from his duties in Markarth, so when he had mentioned that he was due for some leave, Liya’s first response had been to suggest he accompany her on her next barrow expedition. The way his face had lit up at that was quite moving. He had looked almost boyish.

That morning, Liya had awoken to find Ondolemar already up and about, stuffing an array of potions and what looked like a whole loaf of bread into his pack, and _humming_ something.

She had never seen him so happy.

Once at their destination, he had proven to be an absolute beast in combat; ruthless, calculated, efficient, everything the Dominion wanted in its prized agents. He was in his element, in a way that he most assuredly was not when wearing grooves in the Understone Keep floor or dragging his way through piles of tedious paperwork.

Yes, an excellent day indeed, and now here they were, back in his quarters, enjoying a chicken stew and nearing the end of a bottle of Alto wine as evening drew in. The fire crackled merrily in the grate, the wine loosened tongues and brought a flush to warm cheeks, and he was smiling at her, laughing, happy - gods, she should take him with her more often.

She was about to say as much when a look of utter horror swept across his features, and before she could react, he had pushed his chair back violently and leapt to his feet, shock magic crackling in shaking hands.

_Shaking?_

‘Ondolemar, what-’ she began, turning to face the direction of his mortified gaze.

'Shh!’ The purple sparks were dimming now, and his golden skin had taken on an almost Nordic pallor. A bead of sweat rolled down his temple, glinting in the firelight.

Divines, he was _trembling._

Liya looked more closely. Then she saw the cause of his anguish, and had to bite her lip to suppress rising laughter.

A small brown spider was making its purposeful way across the flagstone. Liya grinned in spite of herself. She quite liked spiders - not the frostbite variety of course, gargantuan abominations of gruesome venomous death on too many legs that they were, but these little ones were quite inoffensive.

The _ruthless, calculated, efficient_ Justiciar Commander, scourge of Talos devotees everywhere, clearly did not share her views. He had clambered up onto his chair in a fervent attempt to put as much distance between himself and the steadily advancing arachnid as possible, and was shifting his weight from foot to foot nervously (textbook battle stance, Liya noted, although perhaps with a little more sweat and quivering than was strictly required). His eyes roved desperately around the room in a futile search for a weapon he could reach from his current vantage point; blind terror had robbed him of the focus required to draw on his magicka, and she knew that for an Altmer, this was quite unforgivable.

Panicked resignation flashed across his features. Liya recognised that look, having seen it on the face of many of the enemies she had dispatched - the sentient ones at least. It was the look of someone who truly believed they had nothing left to lose, the look of someone who was ready to do something unbelievably stupid if there was even a tiny chance it would buy them more time.

Eyes never leaving the creature, trembling fingers fumbled at the fastenings holding his robes closed across his heaving chest. Liya ducked as the heavy leather garments sailed over her head, missing their oblivious target by a shamefully wide margin.

'Ondolemar-,’ Liya tried again.

He licked his lips, now brandishing a boot in one hand and an unopened wine bottle in the other.

'Kill it. Auri-El’s love, Liya, I beg you, please, just kill it.’ His voice shook, scarcely more than a low whisper.

A lesser person might have wanted to see just how many garments the terrified Altmer would have to remove before he considered the threat to be neutralised. Liya, however, had no wish to be hit in the face by projectile footwear or expensive wine, so she fetched an empty glass from the table and neatly trapped the interloper beneath it.

Ondolemar blinked at her in stunned incredulity as she slid a piece of parchment under the rim.

The spider wandered up the side of the glass and fell off. If spiders could be said to look disgruntled, this one did.

'W- what in Oblivion are you doing?!’ His voice had risen several octaves - not quite in shrieking territory, but very close.

'Removing our little guest from your presence,’ she replied soothingly, 'There, you see? Quite harmless. Back in a moment.’

Upon leaving his quarters, she was surprised to see one of his guards heading in her direction, presumably bearing a message for his superior. She knew they were not particularly impressed with Ondolemar’s choice of lover, but they remained coldly civil, and that was really all she could hope for. This time, however, the guard took one look at her captive and gave her a complicit little smile.

'Oh. He hates those. I suppose I ought to thank you. Last time, he ordered me to kill it and inadvertently threw a candlestick at my head.’

She laughed wryly and released the spider onto a nearby bush.

'I named it Talos,’ she muttered to the guard, her liberation mission concluded. He was unable to hide his smirk.

The two enjoyed an uneasy camaraderie after that. Sharing the rare experience of being caught in the crossfire in a high-ranking Thalmor agent’s battle with his worst fears tends to afford you a certain level of mutual understanding.


	7. Lost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not even Dovahkiins can hold it together all the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry. This is totally therapy-writing. If _I_ have to spend time seriously questioning my future and my path and my life goals and my decisions and basically everything, so can my DB.
> 
> Hastily scribbled while I should have been doing something else. 
> 
> Back to Larysa, my Altmer DB, and her renegade family and I promise I'll write that backstory one day... ~~probably~~.

I don’t have the words anymore.

I was brought up in a world of eloquence, of elegantly-crafted phrases that expressed pleasingly refined concepts in the perfect words. I have lost this. It has been taken from me in much the same way as - what? My sense of justice? My firmly-held beliefs of right and wrong? _There_ , you see? I cannot even articulate what it is I have lost. But either way, its absence leaves me grasping after words that seem to mean things to everyone but me, words that sound empty and hollow as soon as they leave my lips. As empty and hollow as I feel, perhaps, or is that too pessimistic?

I never wanted this.

Oh, of course, I wanted fame and glory and people looking up to me, once upon a time. What young mer doesn’t? Especially when she has been brought up in a world of intrigue and power games and whispered conversations in secluded corners after dark. And maybe losing one’s mother at an early age and tagging along with one’s older brother throughout one’s adolescence gives you a certain view of the world, too. For the glory of the Aldmeri Dominion, indeed. I lived by that as much as any of us did in our near-renegade family. Glory, honour, and power - our way.

_Be careful what you wish for._

Last night, Erandur came home to find me staring blankly at the fire. When he asked what was wrong, I burst into tears. I had never cried in front of him before.

I snivelled that I just _couldn’t_ anymore, that everyone expected so much of me, that I felt personally responsible for ending a godsdamned _mess_ of a conflict and saving Tamriel from its biggest threat since the Oblivion crisis and why _me_ , Erandur, why an average Altmer from an average noble family (I laughed then, even through my tears, at how ridiculous that sounded)? Especially, why someone with the scars I have, the scars of my mother, my little brother, my renegade father? When I scarcely know who I am most days, but everyone else thinks themselves perfectly qualified to tell me?

Erandur said nothing. He just held my hands and rubbed gentle circles with his thumb. And when I’d finished, and my sobs were no longer quite so convulsive, he looked at me with those beautiful crimson eyes I love so much and smiled at me sadly and said,

‘Because you can.’

_Because I can._

I very nearly got angry with him. But I _can’t_ , I wanted to shout, that’s why we’re having this conversation, I _cannot_.

'And because you already are.’

'But I don’t want to,’ I whimpered then, feeling more and more like the seven-year-old Larysa being told to stay strong, her mother was very proud of her, and she was certainly looking down on her from Aetherius, remember that and be strong, little one, be strong. 'Why can’t I go home and -’

'Why did you come to Skyrim?’

‘You know why! I needed to leave the Isles, you know that. After what happened with my father, and Nurion, I just-’

'Wanted to see the world, but the world wasn’t what you hoped for, because you were too young to realise that you couldn’t escape pain and suffering by crossing a sea.’

The gentlest of words can disguise the harshest of truths.

I sniffed, pathetically.

'Listen to me,’ he continued, ‘You will do this, and you will win, because you are the only person who can. You were born for this, Larysa; it is the destiny the divines have wrought for you. If not you, then who? But you will not be alone, I swear it. I will help you as much as I can, but I cannot take this from you. I wish I could.’

_In this moment, I wish you could, too_.

I gratefully allowed myself to be gathered gently to his chest, where he stroked my hair and kissed my forehead. I wished it was enough. Somehow, it made my path even harder, knowing that it was not.

 


	8. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Dragonborn is a long way from home. Maybe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You get a strange feeling when you're about to leave a place, I told him, like you'll not only miss the people you love but you'll miss the person you are now at this time and this place, because you'll never be this way ever again.” 
> 
> _\- Azar Nafisi, Reading Lolita in Tehran_
> 
> More therapy-writing. Back to the fun stuff soon. ;)
> 
> It is what it is.

The courier found me this morning.   
  
Everything was so normal; I was in the marketplace. I had just taken a bite out of the apple I had bought moments before. Tart, crisp. It was sunny. Cold, of course. I was happy, in that quiet contented way when you are comfortable in your life and your routine and you could happily drift through the rest of your days without questioning much.   
  
The divines don't like that, I've found.   
  
_'L,_  
  
 _You're needed back home. More of the same, but we need you. A is here now, too._  
  
 _Hurry back. We miss you._  
  
 _\- N'_  
  
Cryptic - my little brother always was - but the meaning was clear. My aging father, never a supporter of the Thalmor ever since the coup in Valenwood 200 years ago that killed my mother's family, had decided to take action. On what basis was anyone's guess. Paranoia, a legitimate threat, a sign from Auri-El himself - who knew. It was certainly not something that Nurion was about to commit to paper.   
  
For Aicarno to be back, too; that was troubling.   
  
I knew only that civil unrest had been growing in Alinor ever since I left. I had known, even then, that I would probably never be able to return to the home I remembered from my childhood - the home that possibly had never existed in the first place, save in the rose-tinted realms of girlish fantasy. But to be summoned like this, from so far away? I think I shivered, and I am used to Skyrim's chill by now.  
  
I booked passage to Alinor on a trade vessel leaving Solitude tomorrow morning.   
  
Every one of Erandur's questions this evening, I had to answer in the same way. 'What's wrong?' 'When will you be back?' 'Will you be safe?' 'Is it serious?' _I don't know. I'm sorry._ The only question he asked that I could answer, 'Do you want me to come with you?', and I had to answer with the very opposite of how I wished to. Yes, I want you to. No, you cannot.   
  
How is it possible, to fall in love so utterly with a place?   
  
Perhaps I will always live between two worlds, now. Perhaps my whole life will be characterised by this strange dissatisfaction, this ever-present feeling that I'll never be quite whole again. That I will always miss somewhere, always be searching for the person I was when I was there.   
  
I remember the Larysa who first arrived in Skyrim. Cyrodiil had been good to me. The Imperial City had reminded me of Alinor; an Alinor without the pomp and showiness. I felt quite at home there. I couldn't resist the pull of Skyrim for long, though. Looking back, it's quite obvious why. But I was so unsure. I'd heard horror stories in the Imperial City - stories of a province locked in a bloody conflict, stories of what the Stormcloaks would do to an Altmer like me, stories of unimaginable cruelty from the Thalmor. It was a miracle I mustered the courage to cross the border at all, but I consoled myself with the thought that the College would be neutral, and I was desperate to see it.   
  
And obviously, everything happened after that.  
  
Now, on the cusp of going 'home', I am forced to confront a very uncomfortable truth. I am no longer sure where it is.


	9. Promises

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tensions run deliciously high for Ondolemar and a certain new friend of his. At least it livens up the party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to put this in the Liya/Ondolemar series, but it isn't actually in their backstory... I don't think. Just a disgustingly self-indulgent way for me to sate my love of writing build-up and sexual tension. xD

Gods, but Liya loathes parties. Parties like _this_ , anyway, not that this is worthy of the name. In Liya's lexicon, parties are fun, joyous occasions full of people you at the very least tolerate, with music and dancing and laughter. No,  _this_ travesty is by no means a party. 

She had been hovering uncomfortably somewhere in the vicinity of the buffet table, watching slimy upstarts attempt to ingratiate themselves with the Ambassador, when a light touch on her arm had jolted her out of her ruminations. She had turned to see - thank the Divines, the closest thing to a friendly face she could have hoped for - Ondolemar.

He had looked about as bored as she felt.

He had also come bearing gifts - a glass of brandy and an invitation to join him, both of which she had gratefully accepted. He was _almost_ friendly to her, anyway, in a Thalmory sort of way, ever since she had indulged in a spot of thievery on his behalf for the sake of an amulet.

The _almost_ met its match at the bottom of their second glass, when he had crossed the line into being positively charming _._ For Liya, too, the alcohol was not only bringing most unwanted feelings bubbling to the surface, but also effectively dampening her capacity (and, indeed, desire) to repress them.

Now, while neither of them could say exactly how it has happened, the conversation has turned to the rather dangerous subject of Thalmor security, and Ondolemar's quarters in Markarth, and Liya has made some ridiculous remark about how maybe she should attempt to break in if he is so appreciative of her larceny skills (which are pitiful, and she knows it, but the brandy is coursing hot through her veins and he is actually _smiling_ at her and he really is quite handsome, really, but she's always thought that, she just never knew he could be so  _nice_ , and he's just laughed, a deep, pleasant, warm sound, and she isn't bored anymore, and he may be a Thalmor, but...)

_It's only words._

'Well?' Liya looks up at him through heavy-lidded lashes, a little smile playing about her lips. 'What would you do if you caught me?' 

Ondolemar turns a sharp glance to the little human opposite him. Was she asking what he thought she was asking? Surely not; he berates himself for even entertaining the suggestion, and blames the brandy. No.

But oh, how very interesting if she was.

_One way to find out._

'As a commanding officer of the Aldmeri Dominion, I have the authority to deal with intruders however I see fit.'

'I'm sure you do, Commander. But I am intrigued. How would you see fit to deal with - _me_ , let's say?'

There is no mistaking the coy little purr. He hides a smirk; the game, it seems, has begun.

'Well. The first step would be to ensure you couldn't escape. Losing a prisoner is considered highly unprofessional, you know. I wonder, however...' He leans back in his chair and sizes her up, letting his eyes slip very obviously from eyes to jaw to neck to collarbone, the swell of her breasts beneath her dress, the pulse that twitches the gold chain she wears; it's fast, he notes. Good. 'A slight creature like you would probably be quite easily restrained. Ropes would suffice, I should think.'

Of course it wouldn't be ropes, not for any intruder who was still conscious. Ropes take time, he knows, and by the way she bites her lip in a rather playful show of anxiety, so does she.

'Then, I would find out who you were, why you were in my quarters, who had sent you, what you wanted.'

A devious little smile follows that statement. 'Ah. Perhaps I wouldn't tell you.'

'You would.'

He leans forward. So does she, quite unconsciously, as it happens.

'For - victims... like you, there are...' - he makes a show of searching for the most apt word; he has it, but he is rather enjoying the look of rapt attention on her face - '... _Unorthodox_ methods, which I feel would perhaps yield more information than pain. Pain alone is so uncivilised, do you not feel?'

'It would be worth a try, I am sure.' The space between them is almost palpable now, charged with something heavy, needy, primal, his breath is warm on her face and she feels like the intensity of his gaze could sear flesh from bone, and yet still, with some superhuman feat of control, she manages to keep her voice even. 'And after that? After you had wrenched every last drop of the truth out of me? What then?'

Time to end this little taste, for now. He has her; he is sure of it.

His head slips past hers, his lips hovering tantalising close to her ear.

'Then,' he murmurs, so softly, so silkily that Liya shivers in spite of the room's warmth, 'I would bend you over my desk and fuck you so hard you'd scream my name for the whole of Markarth to hear.'

He pulls back abruptly. His face is impassive; pupils slightly dilated, perhaps, a hint of colour in his gaunt cheeks that had not been there before, but to a casual observer they might have been talking about the weather.

Liya swallows down what threatens to be a highly inappropriate laugh of nervous anticipation and forces herself to match his unruffled expression.

Meeting his eyes, she allows one eyebrow to raise in question.

'Is that so?' Her voice is casual, conversational, betrays scarcely a hint of the chaos of feeling roiling in her stomach. 'I must say, that all sounds most interesting, Commander. You must be an asset to your organisation.'

He smiles.

'One does one's best. Now, if you will excuse me, I fear there are duties I must be attending to. I wish you a pleasant evening.'

That one, single innocent touch, that was all, and yet, as an unsteady Liya stumbles out to the Embassy's courtyard to breathe chilly air free of leather and cologne, he burns in her mind and under her skin.

She knows that should she wish them to be, each word was a promise. 


	10. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For all his Altmeri superiority, there is one enemy Ondolemar cannot defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liya/Ondolemar, but I flat-out refuse to put it in their series. This does not happen. This can never happen. In my actual headcanon they go down fighting together, or something. Not this.
> 
> Imdex wrote [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7864087).
> 
> When I'd stopped drowning in my own tears, I took revenge/inspiration and wrote the below. I didn't think it would make it onto Ao3, though.
> 
> But then.... TheMulletWhisperer wrote [this](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7878106) and my resolve broke.
> 
> ~~Good~~ sad things come in threes, so... here we are. Makes reference to ImDex's Imani, and TheMulletWhisperer's poor sweet Arkved who ripped my heart out of my chest this morning. 
> 
> Also refers back to [I Will Always Be Here,](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6544477/chapters/14972227) the fic that started all this madness. 
> 
> Oh, and they have a daughter. 
> 
> (He'd probably outlive her too but let's not even think about that right now, okay?)
> 
> I think that's it.

It wouldn't be long now. 

"Are you in any pain?"

Liya shook her head and grasped his hand weakly.

"Would you stay with me until I... until I fall asleep?"

Ondolemar made no move to wipe away the tears that spilled from his eyes. Why did she even need to ask, when he would give anything to be able to make this final journey with her?

"Of course, Liya, of course. I..."

He remembered another time a lifetime ago, flower oils and brandy, the way the candlelight sparkled on his little Breton's bare skin, the way her wet hair had felt under his hands as he combed it. The way he had held her as she sobbed for her lost friend. Yvette, wasn't it? It seemed so long ago, now, but not long enough. Their life together was ending too soon, it would always be too soon.

Who would be there to hold him like that, now that she was following after her? 

"I..." His voice cracked. "I will always be here."

She smiled at him and his heart broke a little more. 

"I know. You always have been, my love." She frowned, as if suddenly remembering something very important. "Please, you must promise me something..." a harsh coughing fit interrupted her and he held her close, stroking her frail back until it subsided. "You must _live_. You, and Rulindil, and Arkved. You still have so many days ahead of you and you must try to enjoy them. For me. For us."

Ondolemar's throat tightened. _How can I,_ he wanted to reply, _how can I enjoy anything ever again, you were the one thing that made me see joy in my life, Liya, so how can I, now you're gone?_

"I will try. I promise."

She gave a contented little hum and fell back against the pillows. 

"...tell me a story?"

Ondolemar bit back a sob and settled into bed beside her, pulling her gently into his arms for one last time. 

"What sort of story would you like, my darling? Perhaps I should tell you about the little Breton who helped the scary Thalmor commander find his heart... or the one about the little princess who slew the wicked black-eyed dragon on her fifth birthday... or all those times the two notorious Bretons managed to outwit a whole embassy of Thalmor agents for the sake of a sweetroll..."

His fading wife snuggled against him a little closer with a weak little sound that could have been a giggle. 

"...we had fun, didn't we?"

"Or perhaps..." he let the tears fall where they would, now, burying his face in her hair, breathing in the scent of Home, clinging to it even as he knew it would fade away just as she was, "...perhaps I should just tell you my own story. The story of how you are my world. The story of how thankful I am for you, how you have brought such joy and love and laughter into my life that I never thought possible.... the story of how I will carry you with me always, Liya, in the heart you showed me I had, the story I have tried to tell you my whole life, the story I will never stop telling."

There was silence. 

"...Liya?"

He propped himself up on one elbow to gaze down at her and for a moment, just a moment, she looked as she did when they met, a slight smile playing about her lips, and he could swear that any moment now those eyes would open and she would turn sleepily to face him and wish him a good morning and pull him close, like any other morning. 

"You... you've gone, haven't you?" 

His voice sounded so weak, so pitiful. 

He pressed shaking lips to hers one last time, ran reverent fingers through her hair. 

"Sleep well, my love."


	11. Cosy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ondolemar seeks to expand his territory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After the woe and angst of A Winter's Tale, I felt I had to glue my heart back together with some silliness. 
> 
> Based on a true story. The holiday season often affords nights in somewhat smaller beds than you're used to, after all.

'It's a bit... small, isn't it?'

Liya had never thought she would ever utter those words in any sort of bedroom context with Ondolemar around, and yet, here they were, and she just had. What's more, he was scrutinising the offending object closely and pursing his lips in agreement.

'Yes, it is, rather.'

Liya perched on the edge of the problematically-sized bed squashed into the corner of the small guest room, and gave it an experimental bounce. It squeaked in indignation. Liya winced.

'It's quite comfortable, though. I guess we'll just have to make do. I'm sorry. I suppose my family doesn't have many guests.'

Ondolemar privately wondered if this was a cause or a consequence.

'Oh, well,' Liya continued brightly, shimmying out of her dress and into a shirt of his she had appropriated many months prior, 'At least we'll be cosy.'

\--

Ondolemar soon learned that 'cosy' was not always a positive thing, and also that his beloved Liya did not understand basic arithmetic.

'I am double your size,' he explained again in a patient whisper, 'and thus should have double your share of bed. The fairest way of ensuring this is by you getting one third and me getting two thirds. That way-'

Liya wriggled uncomfortably against the solid bulk of her lover's back and huffed.

'But you're _not_  double my size,' she countered. 'You might be double my weight, but that shouldn't mean you get more bed, and if it does I'll just eat more sweetrolls until I get a fair share.'

Ondolemar ignored her and wriggled luxuriantly, enjoying the softness of the lavender-scented sheets. It was, indeed, quite comfortable - until he wriggled straight into a sharp, bony, Liya-sized elbow.

'Ow! What did you do that for?' he hissed in an angry whisper.

'Do what?' Damn her, she could even sound innocent at 30 decibels.

'You elbowed me!'

'No I didn't. I defended my rightful territory. If your expansionist ideals caused you to injure yourself, that's your own problem.'

_Oh, so that's the way you want to play it._

He smirked, rolled over and squished her against the wall. For the sake of the rest of the household, it was fortunate that her outrage was effectively muffled by Ondolemar's chest.

'Well, now I know your defences. I won't be making the same mistake again. Goodnight, Breton.'

'Move OVER!' Liya shoved with all her might, fuelled by rage at the injustice of it all. She might as well have been pushing a brick wall.

Ondolemar pretended to snore.

"Urgh! FINE! You can have the bed! You can have all of it!" Liya wriggled free of his clutches and pulled herself to a sitting position.

Ondolemar cracked open a suspicious eye.

"I'll just sleep on YOU, instead!"

Half his body weight dropping on him from a rather unkind height caused Ondolemar to emit a superiorly undignified noise, not dissimilar to a cat being sat upon.

Liya pulled the blankets up around her chin, leaving his feet sadly chilled, and nuzzled his chest happily.

"You're more comfy than the bed, anyway. Goodnight!"

Ondolemar glared at the ceiling before wrapping his arms around her and manoeuvring her into a slightly less precarious position in which her knees were not mere millimetres from certain superiorly sensitive areas of his anatomy.

At least she was warm.

Yes, perhaps he could live with this.

Especially if he got those accursed blankets back.

 


End file.
